Remix: Home for Me is the Chaos in Your Arms ( And in My Mind)
by seaflowr
Summary: Redo of a Previous Story: When the Empire Fell, the Republic Didn't Save Everyone.
1. Chapter 1

_She hates the cold. He understands, he'd grown up in warm, humid settings. She'd blossomed in more temperate areas, soft summers and mild winters. This is the reason he gives when, in the frozen landscape of the southernmost region of the planet, she clings to him like a child to her favorite blanket._

 _"It's freezing," she mutters, face on his chest. "I thought it was supposed to get warmer, the further south you go."_

 _He nods, smoothing a hand over her back and ignoring the frostbitten toes on his calf. "It does. To a certain point." And this becomes a brief geography lesson, him explaining that temperature is highest at the equator, the line that divides the planet in half, separating the north from the south. The further away you go, in either direction, the colder it becomes. She is tired, he can see it in her eyes, but she listens, pays attention to his every word._

 _"We should go somewhere warm next," she says, as if they were planning a vacation, just the two of them, not the movement of an entire military force._

 _"Warmer places have bugs. And venomous animals. And poisonous plants."_

 _"At least I'll die warm," she retorts and he doesn't stop himself from smiling at how petulant she sounds._

 _Later, when she is allowing them to get to know her better, she will say that home for her has always been the people who surround her. She has never identified with four walls, never known the pull of returning to a familiar place. She will say it bluntly and he will not be able to ignore the way her eyes flit to him first. But right now they are in his bed, and he can still pretend that she is only here for creature comforts. Tonight she is cold. Tomorrow she might seek out other things his body can offer. It's less messy that way, less complicated, to pretend that all they are to each other is replicable bodies._

 _"You think too much," she chides, softly kissing his cheek._

 _"You learned the ways of the Force? Mind reading is the way of the darkside, you know?"_

 _"I wouldn't have to read your mind, even if I could."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _She grabs his hand, the one not settled on the curve of her back. "Because you tap your fingers when you're thinking."_

 _She smiles, soft and genuine and rare (though maybe less rare recently) and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he could grow to like the cold._

Many believed that with the death of Emperor Sidious (formerly Chancellor Palpatine) the Empire would fall. The rebellion that had brought him down and destroyed his best weapon (twice) thought of the Empire as a snake, remove the head and the body dies. Or perhaps was even less dignified, more like a chicken, remove the head and the body runs around aimlessly for a time before finally collapsing, its remains ready to be fed upon by vultures. This is why many countries, cities, and peasant villages celebrated for days after the explosions, the remains of the Emperor's wasted legacy, decorated the sky.

The Empire was not a snake. Some would call it a hydra, remove one head, another two would grow in its place. Others would say phoenix, perhaps falling once, but rising up again stronger than before.

It doesn't matter what it was compared to. The death of an old men, two old men, was not the death of the Empire. There were still many other figures, many other cogs in the machine, who did not want to release their power. This is why many more did not celebrate, why many more were surprised into silence.

District Administrator Brisen had been in charge of a small district of no consequence when the Emperor fell. The country of Belderone, considered an outer rim territory because its lack of involvement in world politics, had been suspected of having great fuel reserves. The Empire took several mining districts, just like the one currently held by Brisen, but few yielded any real results. Having done little to draw attention to himself, not being particularly terrible nor particularly distinguished, he managed to hold the small space even during the brief periods of Republic rule in the country. He is not well liked by the laypeople, generally forgotten or avoided. He lives comfortably, living off the sweat of others without inflicting the cruelty upon them directly. He caused no trouble for anyone and no one caused trouble for him. It was a lovely arrangement.

This is why he is surprised when one unassuming day the door to his study opens and a visitor walks in, fully dressed in First Order attire. He gives a name, one that Brisen quickly forgets, and sits at his desk.

"No need to be formal, Administrator," the man smiles as Brisen sits up a little straighter and tries to fix his coat. It is not his First Order uniform, most days he did not bother with all the layers, but at least it's black. "The Order simply wants to make sure you are aware of the situation."

"Situation?"

"Yes sir. As you must know, a sympathizer leads the Belderonian Council. Though they claim to remain neutral, we do have evidence that the council is giving aid to the Resistance."

"I… yes, of course I am aware."

The man's smile grows and Brisen begins to regret not remembering his name. The simple cut and bareness of his uniform suggest low rank, but his comfortableness, his certainty, makes Brisen feel as if he is talking to a superior. "Of course we understand why you could not take action. We didn't leave you with a battalion, but we would appreciate any intel you have managed to acquire."

"Intel? Yes, yes, intel. Give me a moment…Of course I've…" Brisen, with sweat around his neck and brow, begins to shuffle through his desk, sending glances at old files and papers. "…. Kept track of the local…committees. …Forgive me. This might take some time, tech doesn't work as well here. We've had to resort to organizing the old way."

"Of course. Of course, please take your time. We already have a small base set up near the… I believe it's called the Nial River?" After a moment Brisen looks up to see the man's expectant look and nods quickly. "Good. Yes, a very secure spot. Excellent tree cover, and the elevated position allows us to see attacks from all sides."

Brisen hands over whatever old files he could find. There are some reports about the overall structure of some buildings, the houses of some high ranking officials and of course the parliament house, in addition to some details of defense. Most of them are dated, the information a few years old at the very least, but the unnamed man only takes them in his hands, glances them over and smiles again. "Oh, thank you so much. The Order will remember your contribution."

The man leaves and Brisen thinks the matter is done. He does not hear word from anyone about any campaigns against the standing regime, and decides that it is better that way, better to not know if the First Order failed or succeeded. Power had changed hands many times in the last few decades, it never posed a problem for him. He wants to forget him, the smiling, nameless man, but it is difficult. A week goes by and he decides their mission was either a success or a failure and decides to wash his hands of it.

The man returns the next day. It is nearly nightfall when Nandler, his groundskeeper, comes into his sitting room and announces that a guest has arrived. Brisen is already in his nightclothes, having expected little else from the day. Perhaps he would just enjoy a drink and watch a poor resolution holovid. Perhaps he would send the errand boy to fetch another form of entertainment. But then there is Nandler in the threshold with a worried look on his blunt, weather worn features and Brisen knows there is no rest for him tonight.

Again the man is smiling. He does not reintroduce himself, instead sitting down and asking, politely, for a meal.

"It isn't much, but I'm sure my cook can prepare a plate for you." Perhaps, the quicker the man ate, the quicker he could be out of their hair.

"Thank you, so much." The man gives a mockery of a bow, mimicking movement made by Nandler before he left the room. The implications are clear. Brisen had not been occupying this place, this useless place, as an asset of the Order. He'd been using it as a place to play king.

The man requests a chance to wash up and Brisen gives him directions to the fresher. He waits for him in the dining hall and regrets not showing him personally, or sending someone else to do it for him. This man could snooping through halls now, peaking in rooms. He counts the ticks and tocks of a nearby clock until he can hear the approaching footsteps. The man bursts in, looking largely unchanged in his immaculate uniform, and takes a seat. There is a silence, tense to Brisen, which hangs in the air as they wait for their food to be served.

"It really gives you an appetite, doesn't it? Getting all the way up here in the goonies. How can you stand it?"

"I just- oh, here's dinner."

Brisen attempts to tuck in the simple meal, a vegetable soup with cheese sandwiches served on the side, in the hopes that it will keep the man from talking. The man, however, takes a few prim bites of his food and leaves the rest largely ignored. Between thick bites, Brisen responds to his questions about the estate, small but luxurious compared to the houses of the peasants who lived there, and how he had been occupying his time since being stationed there.

"Must be hard up here, all by yourself. No support. How do the peasantry take to your authority?"

"Oh, it is difficult. Hard to keep so many in line. They do perform well, if given proper instruction and motivation."

"And what tasks have you set them to?"

Brisen pauses, the spoon stopping directly before his waiting mouth. What had he done? Really, nothing. The mines that the Empire had tried to harvest from were largely untouched, having gone dry years ago. People usually went about their daily lives with little intervention from Brisen, who only made the occasional appearance to settle disputes and collect taxes. It's a farming village, though the land is barely fertile at the best of times. The man does not wait for a response, instead happily moving onto the next question.

"Must be lonely up here. We didn't leave you with any… intelligent life

"Yes, it's just me here. Me and a few… assistants, I suppose you could call them. From the lay people."

Though a wine had been served with their dinner, the guest seemed to take no interest in it. He drank water, though, and his cup was nearly empty by now. Brisen waved his maid, Winna, to the table to refill their glasses. Though he had already downed a rather large glass of the red wine, Brisen this time opted for water. Something about this questioning made him feel as if he needed his wits about him.

"Is she one of your… assistants?" The man leaned back in his seat to take her in, the middle aged woman who was still very attractive. Winna had worked for Brisen since her early teens. This has spared her from more laborious work that many of her peers had been subjected to, had given her better living arrangements. She dressed modestly, a long skirt and a loose fitting shirt, and the dirty blonde hair was pinned at the nape of her neck. Her face was kind and round and had mostly been spared from premature age, though her hands, feet, and knees, were often swollen and sore.

"Yes…" Brisen did not know how to address him. Sir, Commander, Captain? The sentence lay awkward and unfinished in the air.

"She's lovely."

The woman stiffened. Water poured from the pitcher in her hands, but the sudden tension in her body made it nearly slosh from Brisen's glass. He cursed her, quietly, and looked up again. If this man wanted Winna, he could have her. Brisen would appreciate the distraction and maybe the reminder of what her life could be, if Brisen took it upon himself to turn her out, would stop her from cutting corners on the house work.

She looks at Brisen's nearly empty bowl, then at the guest's, which is nearly full. "Shall I bring out the second course, my lord?"

"My lord?" the guest laughs and Brisen cringes. It is a title they call him by here, though it was not his in any official capacity. It inspired loyalty, it had a nice sound, he doesn't know what possessed him to tell these idiots to call him my lord. He only knows that right now he regrets it because their guests looks so amused.

"It's, it's nothing?"

"No, No, you're right. My lord. These people need to know who's in charge. 'My lord.' I like it."

Winna brings out the second course and Brisen manages to stuff down three bites of too tough meat. If the guest notices his sudden change in appetite, he does not mention it, still just blissfully asking questions and ignoring any silence. The last course is a cake, the man's eyes widen when, this time, the cook carts it in on a small stand. It is a small thing, barely any decoration outside of a few flowers and dabs of icing, but the old man looks proud.

"That will be all, Draren," Brisen prompts when it looks as if the old fool is going to linger. He had wanted to see the man's reaction when he took the first bite of cake, but takes the hint and leaves the room.

In the kitchen, Winna is already tending to the dishes from the men's meal. Her shirt sleeves are tugged past her elbow to avoid soaking them in the hot, soapy water. Draren turns his attention to the leftovers. There was still soup left in the pot, a few bits of overpriced meat still in the pan. The fact that their uninvited guest barely ate meant that the three house servants would still be able to split the leftovers for a decent meal.

"You think the lord's in trouble?" Winna asked, scrubbing a stain of sauce from the side of a bowl.

"What makes you think that?" He returns, moving prepare the bowls for their meal. Nandler gets the largest bit of meat, he needs the protein for his field work, but Draren makes sure more beans are put in Winna's soup. When the kitchen is clean, when the dishes are put away, Draren, Winna, and Nandler will sit down and eat together. They will give the usual discussion about their day, the problems they encountered in their tasks. They will tell small jokes and try to shake their unease.

"That man. He just seems odd."

"What'd he say his name was?"

"Matrius."

"Hmm." Draren made a noise of pretend contemplation. The name meant nothing to him. All he knew about the man was that he seemed to have the appetite of a small child and would not cease talking.

Winna hesitated, shaking a bowl dry before placing it on the drying rack. "I think the lord means to give him to me tonight."

There was a long silence shared between them. Draren has been Brisen's cook for decades, he was already a permanent fixture in the home when Winna was brought through the threshold. After so long together he had come to care for her, in the way that a man cares for his daughter. She was pretty then, is lovely now, but what is most important is her kindness. Winna is a gentle creature, giving and good to nearly everyone she meets.

Draren grunts and makes a point of cutting the sandwiches into perfect triangles. He is about to open his mouth, about to try to something that may comfort her, but there is a knock on the backdoor and he doesn't have a chance. Winna, grateful for the distraction, wipes her hands on her apron and goes to the door, cracking it open to peer at the night time visitor and then opening it entirely, a large smile gracing her soft features.

Draren did not like this visitor, though his presence was something he was well familiar with. The figure was small in stature, mid height and thickly bundled against the cool spring air in layers of old and well-worn clothes. The boy, who they affectionately called Mouse, was selected by Brisen to perform errands. Little things, like moving messages and bringing supplies back to the home. He always followed instructions to the letter, never once gave a moment of protest or trouble. And while Draren recognized the young boy as an asset to the house, he could not bring himself to trust him. Because he had never seen Mouse's face. He had never been able to really look him in the eyes and gauge the strength of his character. He had never seen his face when he lied or told the truth, didn't know if the features changed. He had never heard his voice.

The problem with Mouse was that his face was covered in layers and layers of tattered clothes and bandages. And Draren could not bring himself to trust a man whose very identity had to be kept secret.

Mouse stays outside the door, reaching into the deep pockets of his coat and pulling out a pad. In rushed handwriting, he quickly scrawls a note on the brown, wrinkled pages and hands it to Winna.

Draren watches as her well trained eyes take in the chicken scratch lettering. It had taken her a long time to be able to decipher his handwriting, and now she was the authority on communicating with him. Less complicated things he could communicate with his hands or body language, but questions were difficult.

"He doesn't need anything tonight, I don't think. But I do have a list of things I need from the market tomorrow. Do you mind if I write it here?" Mouse shakes his head in the negative and she writes down a long lists of items for the boy. Her letters are neater, but in the large, strained fashion of a child. Her schooling had been cut short, but she could still read and write at a passing level. "I'll make sure to ask for the money for it in the morning ok?" Mouse nods and she hands the pad back to him, Mouse nods firmly, stepping away from the light that spills from the threshold. He is about to disappear into the night, wherever he escapes to when he's not working for the household, but Winna takes one step out of the house and takes his arm.

"It might rain tonight. You should stay here."

The boy shakes his head.

"Please. Not in the house if you don't want to, but at least the barn."

Mouse looks at the hand on his arm and nods, tugging the jacket closer to him. Winna releases him and smiles with relief. "I can bring you food later. And some blankets."

The boy shakes his head and makes a motion with his hand, moving his wrist while also pointing with his finger. Even Draren, who tried to avoid him, recognizes this sign, he'll be back. He nods to Winna, then to Draren, and makes the walk to the barn.

"You know Nandler hates it when he sleeps in there." Draren chides.

"He doesn't do any harm," Winna frowns, returning to her dishes.

"You that now, but you shouldn't get too comfortable with him. Boys like him, no family, no history. He could b-"

"Mouse is a good boy. He's only ever done what he's told."

"Mouse? You hear that? What kind of name is Mouse? And how come he's never let us see is face?"

"I think he has a scar. Or something wrong with his face, so he doesn't want us to see him." She gives a long, lingering look to the door and Draren knows she is thinking of him with sympathy and sadness, making due in the itchy, drafty barn. "I feel sorry for him."

"Well I feel sorry for the cows that have to put up with him tonight." He finishes reproportioning the food to make sure there is some to give to the newcomer and takes off his apron, preparing to go collect the last of their party. Nandler might still be putting away his tools in the shed. "And I'm not giving the little bastard any meat."

"He can have mine. I'm not really hungry."

Draren walks away, grunting in the negative, and Winna allows herself to smile. The smile slips from her face when the door to the kitchen swings open and she sees the man, Matrius, step into the room. He is young, she realizes, when he comes closer to her, his face still round and fresh and unmarred by age.

"I don't think Brisen would object if I decided to have you in this very kitchen. Do you?"

She shakes her head, holding the washcloth in her fists. She will ask him to leave her untouched. He might say no, but he also might be kind and leave her be.

"I don't want you."

Relief fills her and she relaxes against the counter. He takes a step closer into her personal space and, if she could, she would have taken a step in retreat. "I want to know about this household. And who knows better about the dirty laundry than the maid?"

Winna shakes her head, confused by his words. She doesn't recognize the expression. "You want to know about the… cleaning?"

The smile falls from the man's lips in a short display of annoyance. "No, woman. I want to know about your boss."

"Lord Brisen-"

"Alright, first and foremost, stop with the 'lord.' The man is no one's lord, not even you sorry lot. Second, whatever kind praises you were about to give that waste, save them. I don't care. I want to know if you've actually ever seen him do a day's work."

Winna, stunned into silence, merely shakes her head.

"Ever had strange visitors?"

"No sir," she speaks, shaking her head still and wetting her dry lips with her tongue. "No. Other than you."

He smirks at that, the grin a little more honest but also more chilling. "Alright. We're getting somewhere. How often are you with him?"

"Not often. He spends most of his time in his room or in his study."

"So he could be speaking with someone? Without you knowing?"

"Well… well yes. He could, I suppose, I… I don't really pay attention to-"

"Yes, yes I get it," Matrius casts a glance around the kitchen and sees the four separate platters on the counter. Four, but he had only counted three workers in the house. "Dinner party?"

Winna nods eagerly, "We share a meal. After all the day's tasks are done, of course."

"Yes. Of course. Who's the fourth?"

"Beg pardon?"

Matrius points to the fourth platter. "You, the old man, and the oaf. That makes three. Who's the fourth?"

Winna's eyes cut at the door and Matrius follows the motion. "It's the errand boy, sir. His name is Mouse. What I mean to say is that we call him Mouse, it's probably not his proper name. But he doesn't usually stay here and if he does it's in the barn."

"Is he in the barn now?" Matrius asks, stepping past her to look outside the window that rests just above the sink. The hot water gets on his jacket, he doesn't seem to care. The rain, just a gentle patter on the roof, has already begun.

Winna swallows hard as his eyes light up, finally making out the old wooden structure in the dark night. He turns over his shoulder and looks at her, face more stern. "Well?"

"Yes, he is."

He nods, backing away and looking around the space one more time, as if looking for more information. Satisfied, he turns his attention back to Winna. "Anyone else I should know about?"

She shakes her head.

He lets his false smile find his face again and reaches for her hand. "You've been a great help dear. I will remember this later, understand?"

She doesn't but she nods all the same. And as he makes his exit, Nandler and Draren are just returning, standing aside so that he may pass through the threshold first and then coming into the kitchen. Nandler immediately turns to the food, taking his platter to the dining hall. He'll be halfway done before either Draren or Winna join him. Draren is looking at her intently, a frown forming on his aging features, but Winna ignores him, instead returning to the dishes.

"I'll be out in a moment."

He glares at the door, at the young man who has already left the room, and takes her arm. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she nods, trying to shake off her unease. Matrius, he had barely touched her but she still felt…

"Did he try anything?"

"No. No, he just wanted to talk." She turns the older man and removes her arm from his grip. "Go eat. I'll be out in a moment."

Draren looks hesitant, but he obeys all the same. And after he leaves the room Winna allows herself to sag against the counter and breathe deeply. She only has a few moments of peace, of solitude, before there is a knock on the backdoor. Mouse has returned for his dinner.

She opens the door, other hand holding his platter. It'll be wet by the time he gets it back to the barn.

"Eat with us tonight," she demands, opening the door wider to allow him in.

Mouse shakes his head, neck craning forward to allow him a better look at her. Winna can feel his eyes on her face, the attention, and she knows that he is trying to decipher her expression. He reaches for his pad, scribbles a few words, and hands it to her.

 _You Ok?_

She nods, sniffling. "Of course I am. Now, come in here."

Mouse shakes his head again, but steps inside of the house all the same. He is the same height as Winna and when they are standing next to each other she can see, in the cracks allowed by the bandages, his eyes. They are brown, thickly lashed.

His hands are bound in gloves and when he reaches out, Winna almost pulls away. But she allows him to take the plate from her hand while his other hand goes to her shoulder and squeezes. Mouse rarely allows anyone to touch him, Winna is the only person in the house who he allows casual contact from and even that is sparse. One time Nandler grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to shake him, punishment for spooking him, and returned to the house with a black eye and busted lip. Brisen thought it was amusing, that such a small boy could do such damage to the larger man, but Nandler had carried around anger and humiliation long after the physical damage healed and Draren's opinion of the boy seemed to sour further. If touching Mouse is rare, then him touching other's is even rarer. Most of the touches Winna can think of are far from personal, nothing so intimate as a hug or even a handhold. But this is almost companionable, this simple contact, and Winna feels the warmth of friendship.

They maintain this odd eye contact and Mouse nods at her and Winna nods in return, reaffirming her earlier claim. She is fine.

Mouse squeezes her shoulder one more time and departs, making his way through the night back to the barn. And Winna curses herself internally, she had forgotten about the blankets. She prepares to call out to him, tell him to come back for a moment, but then the kitchen door swings open again and Nandler is telling her that something has gone wrong.

The man leaves Brisen immediately after dinner. He actually eats the entire piece of cake set before him, it is the only plate he cleaned. He is gone for ten minutes maybe and Brisen assumes that he is attempting to solicit Winna. She would offer him little trouble.

He goes to his study and is a little surprised when the man enters. Perhaps it was a quick affair?

"I'm afraid I must ask you to come with me, District Administrator Brisen."

This is the first time that the man has called him by his full, but ultimately insignificant, title. It makes his stomach drop and he immediately wishes that he had eaten less. "I'm sorry?"

"Would you like time to change into your uniform?" he responds but does not clarify his demand. There is a smile on his face as he casts a critical glance at Brisen's evening clothes. Brisen clutches his robe and wonders if his official uniform even still fits.

"What is going on?" He finally demands, when he finds his voice.

The man whose name he wishes he hadn't forgotten informs him that his presence has been requested.

"May I ask by whom?"

"The Intelligence Sect, Administrator. Transportation for you and your household has been arranged. We can leave immediately."

Brisen could hear the underlying meaning to the words _'we will be leaving Immediately_.' It is night time. Navigation on the roads would not be impossible, but certainly easier in the day light. He swallows hard and stands. "Perhaps I should pack some things."

"That won't be necessary." The man gave a smile, an attempt, perhaps, at reassurance. It was over bright and forced, only adding to Brisen's obvious discomfort.

"Well. Alright then."

He was quickly escorted to a small carriage, black and nondescript. He sat across from the young official who was sent to collect him, the car otherwise empty despite the hint that his staff was joining them. With the curtain drawn he could not see outside, but one glance at his escort told him that peeking out the window was ill advised. The ride was silent and smooth and long, the weather mild. Under other circumstances he might have fallen asleep. But the man before him (who he was beginning to suspect was a bit more important than he'd assumed, if only he could remember his name) kept his hands pleasantly folded in his lap and a small revolver at his hip. It did not encourage napping.

If this man could return to him, then this means the Order had been successful. Maybe they just want to thank him for the intel he'd given a few days ago. Maybe…

Brisen tries to think positive thoughts and listen to the rainfall.

"He said there were four."

"Well we only have three here."

Winna had never seen Stormtroopers before. Heard many stories of them, soldiers completely covered from head to toe in armor carrying guns. She finds herself searching for their faces, for eyes behind the mask, but there is nothing but darkness. Draren remembers seeing them, once, in his youth. It was just before Brisen took over, the soldiers had only been present long enough to ensure that the District Administrator would be safe and that the lay people would cooperate.

"He said to check the barn."

Winna's eyes widened. "He left. After he got food. He left."

The two troopers turned to each other and one nodded. "I'll check the barn."

"Be quick about it. We have to get them to interrogation soon."

Other Stormtroopers were present in the house. They had spilled in only moments after Brisen left, each filling different rooms of the house and turning them upside down. Winna frowned, she would have to clean this up later.

"What's going on?" Nandler demanded. There was a stain on his shirt, Draren recognized his soup. There must have been a struggle getting him here, but he seemed more subdued now.

"No talking," was the short reply.

A few minutes later the trooper who was watching over them peeked out of the window, perhaps getting impatient. Even Nandler looked a little confused, as if collecting Mouse was taking a long time. Draren seemed to shift a bit on his feet, the left knee aching a bit.

"May I take a-"

"No talking."

The other trooper burst through the door carrying Mouse's limp body. Winna covered her mouth and tried to hold back a scream while the soldier deposited him, roughly on the couch.

"What happened GR8812?"

"Little bastard fought back. I had to stun him." The trooper reached for his helmet as if to take it off, but was quickly stopped by his partner.

"What are you doing? We're not supposed to take our helmets off."

"I think he gave me a concussion. Kriff I-"

"We don't have time. Get them in the carriage. You can visit the medbay when we get back to base."

So the one called GR8812 picked up Mouse again, while the other directed Winna, Draren, and Nandler out into the rain and into the carriage. GR8812 practically tossed Mouse into the back, still complaining of his head, and Winna tried to make sure that he didn't move too much on the bumpy road. She kept his head in her lap and, when he turned a bit to the side, Winna could see a stain of red blooming on the clothe on his temple.

"I think he's hurt." She turned to yell at the man at the wheel. "I think he's hurt. He's bleeding."

"Quiet back there!" his partner yelled, brandishing the gun from his hilt.

Nandler smirked and Winna glared at him. "What is so funny?"

"You shouldn't worry about him. His head's already bandaged."

 **A/N: So this is my reattempt at Chaos for Me. I Didn't like it as much when I reread the previous chapters, so this is redoing it. The plot will be largely the same but some things will change, like this: The first chapter. Hope you like this.**


	2. Chapter 2

When they finally reached their destination, some hours later, Brisen could hear the hustle of city life behind him. He had only been to the capitol a few times, it was too much of a hassle to leave his small lands. Another time, he might have wanted to explore. Now he did not risk turning away from the small building before him. It was lacking the First Order's customary dark aesthetic, he considered that this might not have been an official station. Once inside he was guided to a small, dimly lit chamber. For a few spare minutes, Brisen was left alone to his imagination. He could not recall anything that he could have done. Nothing to displease his superiors, nothing to draw in their interest. Thoughts are still turning in his mind when the door opens again, letting in two men and a small cart.

The first is the man who took him from his home. He, short and dark haired, looks Brisen over with something resembling anticipation. The other, tall and red headed, seemed to have taken on a tense, but somehow bored, stance.

"Good morning Administrator Brisen," the red head said, standing erect with his hands behind his back. He did not offer his name.

"Good morning."

"If all goes as planned, this should not take much of your time. We have some questions."

"Questions?"

"Yes."

The dark haired man smiles that honest and unnerving smile before sitting across from Brisen. He leans forward, almost conspiratorially, but the movement draws Brisen's attention to the cart they'd pushed in. It's covered with a dark tarp, but that doesn't make him feel any less nervous. He stares and feels his mouth fill up with spit.

"Don't be nervous," the dark haired man encouraged. "I just have a few questions. Shouldn't be any problems. So long as you're honest."

Brisen doesn't know if it was meant to be a reassurance. It sounded of a threat.

"I am at your disposal," he swallows, "gentlemen."

"Nine days ago I came into your home. And you welcomed me, quite graciously I might add. Thank you so much for that."

"Of course, of course, you and the First Order are always wel-"

"I wasn't done," he pleasantly cuts through Brisen's words. "I requested information from you."

"You did. Y-y-y- you said I was a great help."

"You weren't. Most of the information you had was old or false. However, there is a problem we must deal with."

"Yes?"

"Our base. The one that I told you about? On the Nial River?"

"Yes, I remember," Brisen snapped, more from nerves than actual frustration. He wanted the man to just get on with it.

"It was attacked. Less than three hours after me visiting you and providing the location of the base. Can you give a reason for this, Brisen?"

There is a hum of silence as Brisen, squirming in his chair, processes what the other man is trying to say. "You think I-"

"You. Or someone in your household."

"I would- I would never!" Brisen sits up straighter in his seat, fist clenching at his side. One part of this outrage is wounded pride. He may not be the most loyal, most dedicated individual but he is in no way a traitor. Another is self-preservation. If he has betrayed the Order… he is a dead man.

"Yes, I'm sure. But that gives no explanation for why our base, which was secure for days before I visited your home, came under attack. Someone gave the sympathizer a warning. You need to tell me who passed it on."

"I don't know what you are talking about!" Brisen affirms, praying someone will listen. "I am loyal to the Order. My people are loyal to the Order, I swear!"

The dark haired man gave one last smile before looking over his shoulder at the red head. In response, the red haired man nods. "You may begin."

Screams echoed down the corridors. Brisen was not a man who had seen combat, had not built up a threshold for pain. With each question that he gave an unsatisfactory answer to, the more instruments of torture were introduced. Questions about his loyalty were met with punches to the face and stomach. Questions about security brought welts, beaten into his back and stomach with a whip. Fire had been held over his legs and feet till the skin raised red and angry then gray and black with burning, the scent of his own flesh and the horrific feeling flooding his senses. His fists had clenched, unconsciously, and later he would find his hands slick with blood from wounds inflicted by his own fingernails

"There was no one else in the room Brisen. No one but you and me?" Matrius had barely raised his voice to be heard over the older man's pants and groans of pain. His disposition seemed in no way changed by his previous actions. The red head watched with an air of affected boredom. "Now, maybe your maid was listening from the other side of the door."

"Yes!" Brisen pounced on the chance at distraction, anyone. "It must've been her!"

"But you only just swore your house was loyal?"

He was toying with the man and Brisen closed his eyes against the reality of it. No matter what answer he gave, he would lose. "I- I don't know. She's lived with me since she was a child. Never been…. Never been much trouble."

"And what of the old man. You're cook?"

"He… he," Brisen's vision was beginning to swim. He felt himself going under, into the sweet respite of unconsciousness, when a hand struck him across the face. Black leather beat into the soft skin of his cheek, bringing him back to reality. "He's been with me for years. Since the beginning."

"Oh yes, since you established your lordship," the man laughed. Brisen was too tired to feel humiliation. "How did they know of our base?"

"I don't know! It could've been scouts or or or or anything! I don't know!"

Matrius smiled. Another false kindness. "I'm afraid that's the wrong answer. Would you like to know why it's the wrong answer?"

"Why?"

"Because my men have found a letter. A letter Brisen, an old fashioned paper document indicating a correspondence between you and a member of the Belderonian Council."

"What!" Brisen searches his memory. He doesn't remember, he doesn't.

Matrius taps at his datapad, pulling up a file and giving it a glance over. "It isn't too damning. It was when Belderone was in support of the Order. But look at who the letter is addressed to."

Brisen could not see, but he knew, even without looking, the name of the person he had written to, explaining his position in the First Order and why it was important that he maintain control over this small town. Perhaps he over exaggerated the need for the mining facility for the resources, or the impact he was having by "civilizing" the population. This did not matter. What mattered is that he somehow convinced Ariun Weld, the Republic sympathizer and what Brisen could only assume was the now former Prime Minister on the Belderonian Council, that he was at the very least unimportant and, perhaps, an ally. And this did not bode well for Brisen.

"Anything he said is a lie. I fed him no information. This was the only time we ever had any correspondence."

"Unfortunately Weld isn't saying anything of anyone any more. After the attack on our base we managed to take one of the soldiers prisoner. I was able to convince him to give up some information which helped us when we stormed their Great Hall. Weld did not survive the assault, so he cannot attest to your innocence. Or Guilt. Now, how well did you know the late Prime Minister?"

"It was just that once. I swear it, I-"

"Enough."

Now, with a nod from the red head, the dark-haired man reached to the lower level of the shelf and began to pull out a metal contraption. Brisen, mind blurred by the onslaught of pain, was brought to the present by the possibility of escape.

"Hux?" He muttered, eyes fixed on the red haired man. He glanced up, eyes sharp, and frowned. Brisen's voice had been more than hoarse, it had been a sharp crack followed by gravel. He swallowed hard, or tried to, but found his mouth and throat dry. "Hux, right? I knew your father."

Knew was a strong word. He had heard of the man, saw him from a distance less than a handful of times. They had never met, formally or informally. But he would build a million bonds with any figure who could get him from this mess.

The boy, the younger Hux, gives no indication that he actually cares. If anything his already tense disposition seems to worsen, face pinching. "I think I'll leave you to this, Matrius," he gives a slight nod, then makes his exit. With the red head gone the other smiles, the expression nearly splitting his face in two, and Brisen knows, can sense, that his troubles are only just beginning.

There is the sound of whirring metal. It takes seconds for the screaming to begin again. No more than a minute after Hux abandoned the interrogation room he can hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind him. When he turns, he is surprised to see Captain Phasma rapidly approaching.

"I thought you would still be assisting the idiot," he mutters, reaching in his coat pocket for a cig.

"I am. The Supreme Leader commanded that we return to you." Phasma, unlike Hux, was positioned to participate in open combat. For that reason, she was very rarely out of her full battle uniform. He thinks he can count on his hands the number of times he's seen her in civvies. However, even without being able to see her face behind the mask, he can sense he disapproval. The cig, unlit, goes back into his pocket.

"I don't see why. We're managing fine here, without his hound," Hux gestures to the door. "Matrius, the madman, is having a field day."

"Well, it's best to be thorough. You of all people seem to know that, General."

There is a smirk in her voice when she address him by his title. It's been more than a month but Hux, General Hux, has yet to become accustomed to his new title. He has taken all of the responsibilities head on, excelling in most of them. He does not mind the added work, actually enjoys it in his way. It's the title, the title, that he has not yet made his own.

"Where is he anyway?"

"The Supreme Leader gave him instructions. I'm not sure."

"He might as well make himself useful and help with the interrogations," another glance at the door. "I don't know how much more the old man can take."

The pair stood silent for a time, listening to the protestations become wordless screams. Finally Hux broke the silence.

"I should make contact with the squadron we sent to his home. Perhaps they've found something new?"

The Captain nods. "I'll supervise the interrogation."

With that General Hux shifts briefly on his feet and walks in the direction of the makeshift comm room. As Phasma approached the door the screaming, having once echoed through the corridors, abruptly stopped. When she opened the door she could see Matrius wiping off his instruments. The man, Brisen, sits in a chair. A sheen of sweat covers his brow, even in this unconscious state his features are etched with distress, pain. There are stumps where the fingers on his left hand used to be. Blood drips onto the floor, smears along his palm.

"If you don't handle those soon, he will die," she warns.

"Yes," he smiles. "I suppose I should call for a medic. And the others? How are they doing?"

Upon reaching the facility, Nandler, Draren, and Winna had all been moved into a stuffy holding room. Mouse, still unconscious, was carried by one of the troopers. Winna, watching his head loll, unsupported, worried about the injury that had been inflicted. When they were finally able to sit down, she kept the boy's head in her lap, every so often watching his chest to make sure that he was still breathing.

"What do you think we're here for?" Draren asked, picking at his finger nails.

"I don't know," Nandler responded, back ramrod straight in his chair. "But it can't be good."

Winna was almost happy that Mouse was unconscious. It gave her something to worry about, something to distract her from her own nerves. When his once limp body began to stir, she felt relief. The eyes, she could see them through the slits, opened slowly, taking in the surroundings, before suddenly snapping open. Mouse tried to push himself to his feet, Winna had to hold him down by his shoulders to keep him from moving too quickly.

"No - don't. You shouldn't be moving yet," she continued to say these things, tone soft and soothing, until the boy stopped squirming in her arms and finally admitted defeat. He leaned back against her, breath heaving, and Winna realized not for the first time how small he was.

His fingers brushed up against the cloth on his face, as if checking to make sure it was still in place. Satisfied, he tapped her arm to release him and once again tried to sit up, this time more slowly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his pad and scribbled a message so messily it took Winna longer to decipher it.

"I don't know where we are. Or why." She responded.

The door opens, revealing two troopers. Winna could not tell if they were the two from before, not until one of them pointed to Mouse.

"That's the one who got to GR8812."

"That one?"

"Yeah. Said he ambushed him from behind, hit him with something."

"I think he should go next."

"Go where?" Nandler asked, standing up. His form, usually rather impressive in its build, seemed inadequate against the armored, weapon wielding troopers.

"Interrogation."

"He can't talk," Winna interjected, moving to stand in front of Mouse. "Just- just take m-"

Mouse raised a hand, silencing her. With a simple gesture of scribbling on his pad, he made himself clear. Mouse might not be able to talk, but he could write answers. He placed a hand on Winna's shoulder, not dissimilar to the gesture he's made earlier that night, before following the Storm Troopers out of the room.

"This one might be difficult," a Trooper warned. Phasma's interest was piqued, if only for a moment, as to why.

"They said he fought back against capture."

That was not unheard of, though perhaps uncommon. When presented, however, Phasma noticed another problem with interrogating this individual.

The errand boy was young, she could tell by his short stature and slight frame. He was probably poor, as told by the way he was bundled in seemingly endless layers of tattered clothing. A boy like him could be seen on any corner, doing various jobs for any number of men. This one would stand out, however, due to the fact that his face was entirely wrapped in gauze and fabric. There were three slits, two for the eyes and one for the nose. The other three who were taken in had said, when the troopers pressed to question him, that they had never heard him say a single word. They didn't think that he could.

When Phasma brought this up to Matrius, he grinned. "Well, give me five minutes. I'll have the little bastard screaming."

The Captain, somewhat hesitantly, nodded. If anyone had the information to discern where Brisen's loyalties lay, with the Resistance or the First Order, it would be the one who carried out his work for him.

She took the errand boy to interrogation, not missing how his neck snapped to watch Brisen carted out of the room. The set of his shoulders stiffened, Phasma placed him in the chair that his employer had only just vacated. The seat had not been cleaned and she could see the boy's eyes, large and dark lashed, staring at the red smears.

"I have some questions for you, boy," Matrius began. The errand boy reached for a pad in his pocket and began to write, only to have Matrius snatch it away. "Oh no no no no no. I don't think so. It's far too easy to lie on paper. No, you will answer my questions. And not with a pen."

The boy touched his throat, then where his mouth might be, and shook his head.

"Oh, I'm well aware. You can't speak, apparently. But I've often found faces to be an excellent sign of the truth." He smiled down at the boy, who Phasma noticed was growing even tenser.

"Let's see about getting those bandages off, hmm?" Matrius leered, renewed excitement in his features. Facial coverings like that would make perfect cover for a Resistance spy, but Phasma wondered if the boy really was a mute, perhaps the gauze indicating a medical problem.

When Matrius reached for the tail end of the wrappings, the boy reacted violently. He slapped Matrius's hand away before lounging forward, hands very close to wrapping around the other man's throat. Matrius, standing above him, delivered a sound punch to the jaw and the boy was sent back into the chair. Another blow landed where there was already a blot of blood on the bandages, indicating a previous head wound. This one seemed to take most of the fight out of the boy, at least disorienting him for long enough that Matrius could quickly restrain him. After forcing the boy's hands behind his back and tying them together he managed to unwrap the top layer, which was mostly soiled bits of cloth, some blue, some the off gray of something that was once white. However the next layer posed a challenge, Matrius could not find the start of the strip, the bit he would pull to unwind the bindings like a loose thread. He quickly lost patience, reaching for a scalpel to cut a path. Phasma heard the door open behind her and turned to see another officer.

"Captain, your presence has been requested in the barracks," she muttered quickly, obviously nervous.

Phasma nodded. "Of course," her gaze flits back to Matrius, who had paused in his endeavors to watch the exchange between her and the other officer closely. Seeing that he had been caught in the act he tried to look away.

"Stay here," she said to the new comer. "All interrogations are to be supervised, after all."

He gave a nod before turning back to the prisoner. The door had barely closed when he began cutting through the gauze, using the scalpel to make a tear. Unwrapping it from around his skull proved to be tedious work, eyes glaring at him the entire time, but the prize was well worth it. In the end he saw why it had been difficult, the errand boy had shoved both ends of the gauze into his mouth before looping it around. Matrius gave a genuine smile as he took in the smooth, somewhat dirty features. No sign of scarring or injury, he was certain that the bindings had been a disguise. Maybe the gauze in the mouth had been a reminder not to speak. He leaned forward, pupils dilating as they roam over wide, angry eyes, and red lips that are swollen and dry.

"This will be interesting."

Phasma returned not long after. It was a small matter, a skirmish among comrades. She was present to hear stories and dole out discipline before returning to the room. A part of her haste was lack of interest in the monotonous task, minor strifes were surprisingly common in such a strict regime. The other part was the need to be with Matrius during this affair. The man got results, there was no contesting that, but Phasma had not liked the look in his eyes. Her suspicions were confirmed when she opened the door. Matrius was still there, standing. His tools were, surprisingly, still clean. He was standing, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with the scalpel in hand.

What caught Phasma's attention was the young girl he was pointing the scalpel at. For a moment she thought that she was the housekeeper, but she had seen that woman. She was older, somewhat stockier than the girl who now stood before her, half naked and wide eyed. A dark bruise, crusted with blood, bloomed on her forehead.

"The errand boy?" She asked, the static of her helmet doing little to cover her surprise.

"Yes. Well, not quite boy, I would think. Not quite a beauty either." Matrius was grinning like a mad man now as the girl jerked in different direction, trying to avoid his touch. Phasma noticed for the first time that she wasn't wearing pants, the front part of her shirt had been cut open. If not for the many layers that had been protecting her, the Captain was certain that she would already be naked. "Not that she'll let me get a look at her," his eyes had yet to leave the girl's face. "Take it off."

"No." The words are coarse and raspy.

"Ah, she speaks. Not quite a scream, but I have time," his gaze flitted to the Captain, as if sharing a joke, and the girl took advantage of his distraction. She lounged forward from her crouched position, tackling the man. She pinned him down with her body, taking the scalpel from his hand and placing pressure with her arm on his throat.

"I don't know anything. The old man had me bring him whores and alcohol, nothing more."

"Then why disguise yourself?" Matrius asked, cocky demeanor showing that the sudden change of events had done nothing to dull his mood. "Why go through all that trouble to hide?"

The girl brought the knife to his neck, scowling. She was shorter than him and had to shift her footing, a motion that brought Phasma's attention to long, powerful looking legs. The feet were clean, but long nailed and calloused. There were various cuts and bruises, each at different stages in healing. This was not what caught Phasma's attention. Instead it was the tattoo, half covered by the hem of her shirt. It was an ornate, almost pretty thing, a symbol that marked the girl as property. More specifically, a sex slave.

"You're a runaway?"

The girl glared at her. "Yes."

The act of human trafficking was technically illegal. But, like many other acts under the Republic, it had often gone unnoticed. There were various entities who specialized in breeding and trading, some of the victims the result of war, some of kidnapping. Still more were sold by relatives, due to the striking poverty of their populations.

"I don't know anything. And I don't think the old man does either." She presses the blade more firmly against Matrius's throat. "Just let me go. Or I'll cut him open."

The Torturer laughed. The girl's gaze cut at him for an instance, not quickly enough to prepare for him to push her hand away and swing his head forward in one fluid motion, knocking her in the face. She winced with pain, stumbled back, and Matrius took advantage of the moment push him off of her and kick her in the stomach. She curled up on the floor and he snatched the scalpel from her fingers before he stood.

"Give me five minutes Phasma. She'll sing." The smile had yet to leave his face. He was panting a little, but did not seem fatigued at all. If anything the girl's struggle only heightened his anticipation.

"That's enough Officer," Phasma commanded, stepping forward.

He jerked back, scowling in confusion. Then, quickly, he remembered who he was speaking to.

"Yes, Captain," he stood at attention and saluted, rigidly. For a second the man looked angry, then he gained control of his expression and looked almost mocking. Phasma felt that she was looking at a petulant child, angry that he was kept from torturing his pet.

"There are other prisoners that require your attention."

"Yes. Of course." He saluted once more before turning back to his table. Phasma took advantage of the moment to offer her hand to help the girl up, but she simply pushed herself up and went for her pants. She was pulling them on when Phasma turned to the young officer who had been present but did not intervene.

"Take this one back to the holding cell. Bring us the son."

The young officer nodded, placing handcuffs on the errand boy- girl's- wrist. She tensed briefly, as if preparing to resist, but seeing that Matrius was otherwise occupied, she allowed the bindings.

When the door opened, Winna, Draren and Nandler watched as they pushed in a stranger and pointed for Nandler to come with them.

"We've been told to release them," the Trooper who had been guarding them said. "We were waiting for Matrius to be done with the… boy."

"Under whose orders?"

"Commander Ren's. He interrogated them and found nothing of suspicion. Only took about five minutes."

"I don't know if they're really done with… her yet."

The household stared at this stranger and began to hear what the troopers were not necessarily saying out loud. This girl… was their Mouse.

 _She's pretty_ , Winna thinks, staring at Mouse's soft face. She wondered what moved her to cover her face, surprised to find no injury or scarring.

"Who is this?" Draren demanded, as if refusing to believe it. Mouse turned to him and glared for a moment, then smiled.

"Don't you recognize me?" The voice was raspy, she cleared her throat and spoke again, this time the voice was softer and less gravely. "How's your knee old man?"

Draren's face became red and he stood quickly. "This is your fault! A spy, a snake! You're the reason the Order has-"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, pressing two fingers to her forehead, prodding the sensitive spot. Winna reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, used it to clean the wound a bit. Mouse winced and pulled away slightly before allowing the older woman to continue her ministration.

Up close, she could stare. And she knew, from the way Mouse's eyes continued to flit to her, that the young girl knew that she was being watched.

"It's still me."

"I know," Winna cupped her face with one hand and smiled. "Nothing has changed. I'll take care of you, when we go home."

Mouse smiled at her, softly, and Winna thought that it was very beautiful. And very sad. And she knew, in that moment, that she would probably never see Mouse, her friend, again.

Phasma stands at the door, watching and waiting for the next subject, when General Hux returns.

"There's no indication in his home of subversion."

"How can you be certain?"

"No evidence of correspondence in his documents. No evidence that he benefitted monetarily from any arrangement. And Ren was able to look in his mind despite his… unconscious state." Hux shook his head. "Send them back to their hovel. There's nothing to find here." As an afterthought. "Maybe with a new title. For his troubles."

For his silence.

"There was an incident," she began. "The errand boy they brought in was a girl. In disguise."

"A spy?"

"No. A fugitive." She surprises even herself with the hesitation in the next sentence. "I have reason to believe she is a runaway pleasure girl."

Hux's face reflects confusion for a moment, then understanding. "Reason to believe?"

"A tattoo. On her thigh."

"Hmm. Perhaps it is a cover story. A sort of failsafe, in case she was ever caught," he ponders this. "We should interrogate her. Just to be certain. Bring her to Matrius."

"She's already been to Matrius. He's the one who made the discovery." Phasma leans against the wall beside Hux. A momentary lax in decorum. "That's actually a part of the incident. When I returned to interrogation he was holding a knife at her to force her to remove her clothes."

"Far worse things have happened to people who have sat at his table. Brisen is missing fingers."

"I know this Hux. And if it had been an interrogation technique, some method to get her to speak, I would not have thought twice about it. Matrius didn't care if stripping her made her speak or not. He simply wanted her naked." And it was because he knew, after seeing how she hid her identity, that she did not want to remove her clothing. To reveal herself.

"We exist to restore order Hux. Not to needlessly terrify little girls."

"Those things are not always mutually exclusive, Phasma." His fingers twitched over the cig in his pocket. "Bring the girl to me. We'll see what she knows."

"They want… that one again."

The trooper pointed to Mouse and Winna tensed. Perhaps it was just to be put before the masked man who had looked into her mind. That wouldn't be too bad, she thinks, he had barely done anything. She remembered the sensation of him searching her mind, but it had not been painful, almost like an uncomfortable itch.

Mouse nods and stands, but before she can get out of the door, Winna puts her arms around her and pulls her close. For a long moment her form is stiff and she does not return the gesture, but then she puts her arms around the older woman and leans into her. When they release each other, Winna makes sure to memorize her face.

Mouse leaves the room without saying goodbye.

She walks down the long halls, flanked on either side by a Storm Trooper. She wonders how effective their armor is, if she nearly took one down with a plank of wood. The path is the same one she took earlier, to Matrius, and she anticipates a fight when the door opens, but the dark haired man is not present. In his place is a red haired man, tall, gaunt, and pale.

"Take a seat," he indicates the chair across from him.

A trooper moves to take her arm to guide her, but she jerks from his grasp and moves forward on her own. She keeps her hands at her side, not planning to be bound again.

"What is your name?" He asks.

The girl stares at him blankly. "Your hair color. I've only seen it once."

Hux frowns. "Name, girl."

"Mouse."

He waits for her to finish, give a last name, but it seemed as if she was finished. "Is that all?"

"Some call me Boy."

He sighs. "Last name?"

"Oh. Don't have one."

"And you are a ... pleasure girl?"

Her face set in a frown. "I used to be."

"I've been told that there is a tattoo on your upper thigh."

"Yes."

"Show it to me."

The girl's eyes grew hard, but she stood any way and dragged her pants to the middle of her thigh. He could make out the tattoo easily on the light skin, though it appeared worn with age. He let his eyes flit over it for a moment before taking some notes on a page. When nothing else was demanded the girl, somewhat confused and more than a little wary, pulled her pants back up and returned to her seat.

"Where were you before coming here?"

"I've been in different places. Never really paid much attention to names. Some were cities, most villages."

"And the name of your owner?"

The girl bristled visibly at that. "I don't have an owner."

"The man who purchased you, what was his name?"

"I don't know."

"I've been told that owners give their slaves a second brand, to mark them as theirs. Shall we check for your second mark?"

"You won't find one." She smiles, thin and bitter. "Most pleasure women aren't rebranded. Lessens the resale value. If you're going to kill me, then do it. But I won't go back to that place."

Hux stood, scowling down at her. "What were you doing with Brisen?"

"Doing his errands in return for a meal and a warm place to stay."

"He's a fool. An easy man to use for information."

"He is a fool," she agrees.

"When did the Resistance set you on him?"

The bitter smile returns. "You think that I'm with the Resistance." There is a short laugh. She maintains eye contact, not for one second faltering as Hux scowls. "What has the Resistance done for me?"

He leaves the room, nearly running into a large black mass in a mask. Hux nearly curses but remembers himself. "Lord Ren. Have you made progress in your search?"

It is less an update and more a taunt, knowing that Ren is no closer to finding his map than he was when last they met. He really shouldn't be surprised when the twit returns the favor.

"Has the spy hunt produced any results?"

Both glare at each other for a moment (or at least Hux assumes that Ren is glaring back) before Hux steps into the hallway. "Is that the girl?"

"Yes." Hux responds, somewhat confused.

"I can make her talk. If she's still being difficult." The others had apparently been subjected to him as well, just to be certain, she was the last.

"If you wish." Hux steps aside.

Ren pauses when he opens the door and sees the girl. It is brief, barely noticeable, but the brief pause does not pass under Hux's attention. He steps in and settles into the seat Hux had only just vacated.

The girl stares at him with curiosity, perhaps not realizing that the man was about to reach into her mind, tear through it if necessary. Her brow furrowed, as if in mild discomfort, but there was none of the pain associated with Ren's touches, when people would resist him.

"I saw nothing of interest," he says in passing, not stopping to address Hux properly. "She's not worth the effort." He's already half way down the hall when he speaks again. "Perhaps you shouldn't pass your inadequacies onto others."

It was an obvious jib, that Hux had not carried out the mission correctly. That maybe Kylo would've done better. Maybe Brisen was right, there was no spy, just a random scout they hadn't accounted for. They had been stationed for a few days after all, without much movement, and Weld was no idiot. He must've been prepared for a potential attack and took the necessary precautions.

Hux fumes for a moment, then turns, regards the girl one more time. She has barely moved. He motions to the storm trooper by the door. "Release the girl. Arrange for her transport back to Brisen." He doubted that she would stay there long, but he supposed that it would be a good starting point.

Kit has been many things. She has been witness and orphan. She has been product. She has been whore. She has been fugitive. For the last few years she has been boy, servant to an old man who, if he had known who she was, may have wanted other things from her. For the last few years she has been mute, covering assumed disfigurement with layers of cloth, even on hot, sweaty days. Kit (though few know her by that name) is very good at surviving. She has done this by changing her skin, her identity. She will have to change again. Maybe in the next town she will be female again, maybe she'll get a real job, like shopkeeper. She was a simple girl. She just wanted to be left alone.

She is surprised when she sees the armored woman leaning against her carriage, but keeps her face still.

 _I wonder if she's really that tall_ , she thinks to herself, stepping forward.

"They said I'm free to go," Kit began with suspicion. "What do you want?"

Phasma closed the space between them. "You said that the Resistance has done nothing for you." Kit nods in response. "Have you ever considered joining the First Order?"

Kit laughs. "No offence, but the First Order hasn't done much either."

"We haven't been given the chance."

"Thank you for the offer. But I think I'll go." She moves past Phasma, pulling her hair into a tail and tying it with a strip of her mask.

"He made you feel weak. Made you feel small and powerless. Naked." Kit paused to listen to her words, hand on the door. "Join us." She pushed a clipboard forward and Kit could see questions written on the page. "You can create a new identity for yourself, leave the past and the pain behind. No one will ever make you feel weak again."

Kit turned and gazed at the barren wasteland that had been her resting place for two years now. It had been nice.

She took the clipboard from Phasma's hand.

Some of the questions she could not rightly answer. She did not know her birthday, though she had a vague idea about her age. She did not know her place of origin, nor the names of her parents. Most of the questions were left blank, but if the armored woman cared, she did not show it.

Kit remains on the base, given from Phasma to another officer who continues her enlistment. At one station she is fitted for a uniform, similar to the black outfit of the officer. When she asked why she was not being given armor like the Storm Troopers, the officer took a look at her chart and shrugged.

"Says here you're not meant for combat."

"Then what am I here for?"

"Looks like Phasma wants an assistant."

"An assistant?" What am I supposed to do? She supposes it won't be too dissimilar to her previous job, running errands and fulfilling demands. The officer hands her clothing in her size, black fabric that is tight in some places and loose in others. Once outfitted she is taken to a medical facility.

The physician is a woman who speaks little throughout the interaction. She is paired with a med droid that occasionally beeps and boops. Kit allows a vial of her blood to be drawn, though she minds the droid when it approaches with a needle. Her height and weight are measured, the blood analyzed for disease and abnormalities. When the Doctor asks that she strip, Kit stiffens before slowly removing the remaining layers of her clothes.

She's been through exams like this before. They never become comfortable. The first time she was six years of age. An aged man had examined every inch of her body with his eyes and his hands, checking for anything that would raise concern. Again when she was sold, and one more time when she escaped, to make sure that she was still healthy despite months of misuse.

The fact that it's a woman looking at her makes it almost easier. She is detached, uncaring as she pokes and prods and inflicts sensations of discomfort and sometimes pain. No touch lingers, not even for a moment, and when it is done she tells her to put on her clothes again.

"Your blood says that you don't carry any illnesses. You do, however, have some nutritional deficiencies. We may have to start you off on supplements. Other than that, you seem in peak physical condition."

"What now?"

"I'll send over a copy of your records to the Captain. She'll finish your enlistment." The doctor gave her first smile saluted her. "Welcome to the First Order."

Before the day ends, Kit is escorted to Phasma's office. The space looks small, the Captain seems to fill it entirely with her tall form. Kit sits across from her and waits.

"How did everything go?"

"Well, I think. The physician says that I am healthy and capable of working immediately."

"I saw."

"But I won't be a soldier?"

"No."

"Your assistant?"

"Yes."

"… What do you expect of me Captain?"

"I understand you do not have much formal training. I'm taking a risk, taking you under my wing. I hope you can respect that."

"I'm taking a risk as well, Captain."

The helmet tilts to the side, as if Phasma is considering her in a new light. "Yes, I suppose you are. If you become I liability, we will not hesitate to cut you lose. I assume you understand this."

"Yes Captain."

Phasma reaches up with both hands to the clasps on her helmet, hears the lock unclick and removes the heavy metal article. Kit is surprised by her face, by the lovely soft features. She does not look like a dainty creature, but she also doesn't look like what Kit was expecting. "I do not think you will disappoint me, Kit."

Her voice is soft, the harsh edge that her vocoder gave removed. The accent is still there though, and Kit finds she likes the sound. It's pretty.

"I will try my best, Captain." And she doesn't want to disappoint this woman, Kit wants to prove herself.

"Good. Now let us discuss your responsibilities. And your privileges."

In three days, Kit is told that she will return with Phasma to the Finalizer. She will probably never see this place again.

There isn't much she's leaving behind. No real family to speak of. No one who really knew who she was. However, before she goes, Kit leaves her notepad with Winna. On the last page is a small note, a few words of thanks.

She does not say goodbye.

The next time Hux saw Phasma the crew was preparing for transport. It was time for the next location, this time in Mygeeto. It was a setting that he was more comfortable in, he supposed, being more modern.

The next time he saw Phasma she was not alone. Instead she was followed by a young woman. She was not wearing Stormtrooper armor, opting instead for the black uniform that his officers wore. Her hair, dark and thick and curly, was brought to a tight bun.

It took him longer than he was comfortable with to recognize the errand boy.

Like this, it was hard to see how anyone mistook her for a boy. The face, though not beautiful, was obviously feminine, with a full mouth and wide, darkly lashed eyes. Her form was also that of a woman's. She had taken great care to hide herself away, and was willing to die to maintain an illusion.

Hux found Phasma alone not long after. "The errand boy?"

She shrugs, a difficult gesture to notice under so much metal. "She goes by Kit."

"She told me Mouse."

"That's what Brisen called her, and his staff. She prefers Kit."

Kit. Like a kitten. He rolls his eyes, that is no proper name for a grown woman. "And she has enlisted?"

"Yes."

The errand boy -Kit, he reminds himself, is pretty. Pretty and young and he contemplates whether or not this is the reason for Phasma's softness towards her. "I wasn't aware that you required an assistant."

"She'll deal with menial tasks."

"Do you not think it could be a bad idea? Hiring a girl who was just a suspect in investigation?"

"Kylo cleared her."

"Yes, his mystical mysticism."

"Do not mock the Force," she warns. "The Supreme Leader does no-"

"Yes. I am well aware. Just make sure that she does not make any trouble for us. Yes?"

"Yes General."

 **A/N: Super long chapter. Mostly because I used a lot of the original chapter. I think I like this version better.**

 **Try to update again soon!**


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